Alright. Here's Chapter 7. Last chapter. Thanks to all for the reviews and for adding this to your favorites!

If you want some more of Sherlock with vampires, I've started a new, but similar story entitled "The Unseen Killers." I'd love for you guys to check it out!

And now onto the conclusion of this story...

Sherlock's POV:

The second person to be killed by Moriarty wasn't the last. As soon as I finish examining the body, there is a report of another killing close by. Lestrade and I head there and find a young man obviously killed by Moriarty

There's a note pinned to the man's chest. I pick it up and read it. I've got him. Come save him. Two smiley faces in the 'o's. Got who? John. I'm already in the cab before Lestrade even finishes saying, "Where the hell are you going?"

The cabbie is taking forever. I tell him to step on it more than once. The only thought on my mind is John. God knows what Moriarty could be doing to him, my jumper wearing flatmate, my blogger, my John. I feel anger rising up in me. I swear, if Moriarty even so much as laid a finger on John, I'm going to kill him.

I arrive at 221B and bolt out of the cab. As soon as I get through the door I know that something's wrong. There are blood stains on the wall next to the door and on the stairs, and there's an odor, an overwhelming sweet stench. Moriarty. I run up to my flat and burst through the door. Moriarty is sitting casually in my chair, while John is slumped on the floor in front of him.

I run over to John ignoring Moriarty completely. Turning John over I calculate the damage. There's so much blood, but he's alive, barely. I can feel his faint pulse beating in his shredded neck.

I look up at Moriarty with hatred in my eyes. They change to red as I stand up and grab him by his suit.

"Why?" I yell shaking him. He just smiles and laughs. I throw him back into the chair and stand there above him panting and growling, baring my fangs, my eyes burning. If I were going to kill him it would be now, but I can't. I don't even know how. He knows that it's all a show, and he's enjoying it.

He claps a few times and says, "Good. I didn't think you'd be intimidating, but you sure look it." He shakes his head. "Too bad I'm not scared." He smiles.

"Go to hell," I yell at him.

He just rolls his eyes and says, "I already did." Then he gets up and looks down at John uninterested. "He was fun while it lasted. A bit dull though, did you tame him? He seemed used to it. Still nice though." He licks his lips. I restrain myself from throwing him out the window.

"What do you want?" I ask him, kneeling down next to John.

"What do you think?" Moriarty says popping a piece of gum into his mouth.

I don't answer him. I'm lifting John onto the sofa. I set him down gently and then I turn back to Moriarty. He's watching me through his red eyes. He doesn't even bother to try and hide them, or his fangs. He smacks his gum a few times. I clench my fists.

Jim Moriarty. The man who took away my humanity, and now he's hurt John. I hate him with everything that I am. To see him burn in hell would be such a relief.

"You know," Moriarty says tilting his head to the side, "I was going to make you mine, Sherlock. Oh we could have had so much fun together." He sighs. "Got a little carried away though. Made you into what I was. That was my bad." He rolls his eyes.

"What do you want?" I ask him again, drawing out each word slowly, seething with anger.

"You," Moriarty answers.

"What?" I respond, my mind working furiously.

Moriarty smiles. He gets up and walks around me a few times looking me up and down while saying, "Our kind never get to have fun with each other. They're always too concerned with finding their next meal, or concealing themselves. But that's easy for us. We can get along in society, for the most part." He stands on his tip toes and peers into my face, "We could get along together, Sherlock."

"Never," I hiss into his face.

He looks dejected. Then he looks over at John. "I had one like him for a while," he says, "Used to let me do it whenever I wanted. But he was just so ordinary." He spits out the last word like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

He walks over to John and bends down, inspecting his limp form. I tense, ready to spring at him if he does anything, but he just says, "Doesn't it burn you up inside? They're just so ordinary. So day by day. So boring." He snorts and turns quickly around to face me. Then he says, "But you and me, Sherlock. We're not ordinary. Are we?"

He smiles and watches me like a cat watching a mouse. What am I supposed to do? I can tell what Moriarty wants, it's all too obvious. But he's a fool if he thinks that I will ever give in to his wants.

I lunge forward and grab him by the wrist. He giggles and I ignore him. I drag him to the door and practically throw him out in the hallway.

"Leave," I growl staring him down. He gets up and brushes his suit off. Then he steps forward, moving so that his face is an inch from mine, his breath on my lips.

"You'll miss me," he whispers, his fingers starting to work their way into my hair. I can see the demonic fire burning in his eyes, the glimmer of his fangs as he runs his tongue over them.

"No, I won't," I reply pushing him away with so much force that he falls on the ground again. He hisses and slinks toward the stairs. It's obvious that we're done, that his efforts have been in vain. Jim Moriarty will never get what he wants from me.

Moriarty starts down the stairs, but then he stops and turns around. "When you get bored of ordinary John, give me a call." He winks and then he's gone, leaving the smell of minty gum in his wake.

I lean against the door frame. I expected as much from Moriarty. I just didn't think I'd be facing him like that. I had plotted revenge against him, despite myself. Fantasized about making him suffer for what he did to me, making him bleed blood that he could never spill. But now, when I had the chance, all I wanted was to get him away, to make him leave, leave me alone, leave John alone. John.

I run over to the couch. John is still out, his breathing shallow. How much blood did Moriarty take? He took less than a pint, but I took some last night. Was it too much? I'm hesitant to take John to the hospital. How do you explain a situation like this? Suddenly John stirs. His eyelids flutter open and he looks around frantically. I grab his hand.

"Moriarty," he whimpers.

"Gone," I say stroking his face. He looks confused. I climb up onto the sofa and rest his head in my lap. "Everything's fine," I whisper running my fingers through his hair. His eyelids droop. I want him to rest; I need him to be okay. He's the only thing keeping me from turning into Moriarty, a mindless killer who does whatever he can to get what he wants.

"Sherlock," John says, his voice small.

"Hmmm."

He opens his eyes and looks up at me. "Promise me, that whatever happens, we'll still have each other."

I look down at him. He's so sweet, so human, so ordinary, so John, and that's what I love about him. "Of course," I answer.

"Promise me," John commands.

I squeeze his hand and say softly, "I promise." John smiles and I watch him until I'm sure he's asleep.

It's always the little things that make him happy. He's not affected with things that he can't handle, he's not cursed like I am. But he doesn't care about that, and I'm starting to think that I don't either. None of that matters. John's right. I have him and he has me. And that's all that matters in the end.